Crawling Towards the Pillowcase
by AiriKatsu
Summary: #3 of WWII One-shots: It's over, and Canada has better things he can think of doing than licking his wounds. The first thing on his list of priorities is going to see the person who's been waiting patiently for him since the war began. Cuba/Canada


All yous waiting for the RoChu (Haha, thanks to a fan who explained this to me...) will have to wait a BIT more; exam season is in, and I only have one more before sweet freedom. So I'll try to pick at it here and there. And if you're expecting absolute adorable fluff then be warned, after this one-shot it gets a whole lot darker... I'm incorporating the horror of the China/Japan WWII battles, as well as the Chinese interpretation of love.

NO I DON'T KNOW CUBA'S NAME... I JUST STOLE ONE SOMEONE ELSE USED. HE WASN'T GIVEN A HUMAN NAME...

On to this one! This one is a dedication to the definition of the term 'Passive Aggressive'. To China… Either way, Ko, here's to your Spanish/French Canadian! (Weird how two of four chapters involve actual ethnic mixes of two of my group of friends…) I know she doesn't adore this couple or anything, but she's one of my best friends (Haha, France and China. No history there...) and she IS Spanish/French Canadian so...

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN OR PROFIT FROM HETALIA, THIS IS PURELY FANMADE FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES  
Genre: Romance/Drama  
Pairings: Miguel (Made up- don't bitch)/Matthew  
Rating: M for Mature  
Warning: Smut and romance, human names, different languages, references to the second world war.

One-shot Collection:

The Waking Up is the Hardest Part- Germany/N. Italy

Not the Storm Before the Calm- France/England

**Crawling Towards the Pillowcase- Cuba/Canada**

The Air You Took And the Breath You Left- Russia/China

But All I Feel is Alone- America/Japan (May or may not be written)

xXx

_Crawling Towards the Pillowcase- Cuba/Canada (Miguel/Matthew)_

XxX

_They had won_.

It was the morning of the first peaceful day that had occurred in many years. There were no gunshots, no screaming families, and no blood. It was over, and as soon as he had been informed of this Matthew William's first instinct was _not_ slumping over in sheer exhaustion or to begin crying in relief as some of the other countries had done. He simply excused himself from the room; a perplexed Arthur calling after him.

That was right, someone had called his _name_. It would be a while later until the gravity of that thought finally hit him.

At first his eyebrows were knitted in contemplation, but soon he found that his heart was beating faster and faster and the bubbling butterflies were beginning to take flight. A steady march turned into a brisk walk, and then into a slow jog, until finally he was in a dead sprint. A wide smile spread across his muddled cheeks, and he actually began to laugh as he stumbled out of the estate.

He didn't want to go to his empty home and relax; he wanted to go visit the one person who he hadn't been able to see since the start of his involvement in the war. He wanted to hop on a plane and not sleep until he was safely wrapped up in the arms of his lover.

So he did just that.

And people never even questioned the start of the baby boomer generation.

x

Miguel had heard the news, and he had just gotten off the phone with his over-bearing boss. As he had listened to the man prattle on, he had secretly placed him on speakerphone and proceeded to strip out of the damn military uniform. He then made a point of throwing the damn articles of clothing into the back of his closet. It was finally over with, and it looked like he wouldn't be sending out any of his people after all. And it sure felt strange to be back in normal clothing; his simple button up orange shirt with a pair of black slacks that weren't quite fitting right. Had he lost weight? Probably, with all his worrying and stress…

It was a refreshing feeling, though; to know that the future seemed a bit brighter now. It wasn't like he could even begin to know what everyone else felt like, to be able to return home after fighting so hard. He also knew it wasn't over just yet, because they'd probably be having a hell of a lot more meetings. Still, he smiled privately when he thought of what Matthew would be doing that moment. He could imagine him, his glasses askew, snoring quietly on the plane ride home, where he could crawl into bed and not emerge for a couple days.

It was a rather obvious reaction; it had been what he did the last world war.

He stared at the coffee cups and dishes that had been building up in his sink and groaned as he slowly made his way over. What a sad way to celebrate the beginning of a new world order. Everyone else would be celebrating, and he'd be stuck at home with a dish rag. Either way, he set to work, chuckling as the random cheers from outside littered the silence.

Maybe he'd wait a day to phone Matt; it wasn't like he could just run off and show up at his house. He'd probably have his hands filled with post-war economics and such. Just the thought made him grimace; so perhaps a couple days would be better. Then they could pick a day to see each other when things weren't so hectic.

He had been listening with bated breath for anything to do with Canada in the war, but he didn't get much information except for some battles he'd participated in. Something about a beach, he remembered. Matthew had written him in scattered increments throughout the war, just to let him know he was okay. Each time the sentences became shorter and more clipped. He was beginning to think England was having a bad effect on him; then he realized that it was probably impossible to sit down and actually write out a proper reply.

Setting the last dish on the rack he realized he had miraculously conquered the mountain of plates with just thinking about the Canadian.

Huh, well, that was weird. He pulled the plug in the sink and scratched his side. He really had lost weight, and man, now that he thought about it he had one hell of a nicotine craving. He was just walking from the kitchen into the living room when he could have sworn he heard something.

"Miguel!" His footsteps faltered.

He shook his head, he must be going crazy. There was no way he heard someone calling his name; who would he looking for him? Maybe it was that couple down the street; they had some serious marriage issues. He laughed a little when he remembered a couple weeks ago when the wife had been chasing him down the street, screaming something about fish and throwing kitchen utensils at the poor bastard.

"Miguel… Oh, what if he isn't home?" The voice was just outside his door, and he simply stared at it in disbelief.

No way.

But the gentle knock, the small little jingle Matthew always used when he came over, was the same as he always remembered; it definitely wasn't America's brash banging. Without thinking his feet moved on their own, and he reached forward and opened the door. He didn't know how he felt, maybe 'blissfully numb' was the correct term.

It must be how every family member one felt when their lover came back from the war, because it was like nothing he'd ever encountered before. All those months of tiresome worry, and beating down his dread when he had heard something went wrong, seemed to all come to the surface when he saw Canada standing there chewing on his bottom lip. He wanted to grab onto him and never let him leave again, but he was also in a weird shock that caused his limbs to become frozen.

Was he real? He wanted to reach out, but damn, why wouldn't he move?

Matthew was waiting for something, anything, to appear instead of the shocked look on Cuba's face. His arm still held the door handle, and he didn't even move to let the blonde in.

Then he started feeling it. He could sense the bliss fluttering across his skin, and he closed his eyes as flashes of people, his people- men and women at the doors of their own homes- being swept up into tears, and laughter, and smiles. It built up slowly at first, but then it started swelling until it was an over-stimulus.

He smiled the most beautiful smile that Miguel had ever seen and spoke words of the sweetest sound. "I'm home…" And those ocean blue eyes finally reopened.

That seemed to snap the taller man out of his reverie so he could step back and gesture for the Canadian to enter into the house. He took in that Matthew was still wearing his uniform, and even though it looked like_ he_ had showered and cleaned up, the outfit itself still held the telltale battle scars. There were rips and blood stains here and there, and the mud seemed to be caked into the material.

The door closing alerted him that his body was moving on its own again, and while he was at it he picked up Canada and hugged him fiercely. The laugher was like a melody from his childhood, and it filled him with so much joy he couldn't even begin to express it. He simply stood there, holding him tightly to his chest, as Matthew's hands gripped his shirt and soothed the skin at the back of his neck. After a while the laughter died down and he could hear the small reassuring whispers as the blonde pressed them against his collar.

Matthew began moving back and forth, seeming to cradle the taller man. Miguel's hands rubbed up and down his back like he was trying to memorize every inch of the Canadian so he would never forget what it felt like to hold him ever again. He couldn't believe how much his manly pride was suffering, but he didn't care.

It had been too long. Far too long to go without seeing the one you care for. The only person who brought sunlight into your life; when they were gone it was like living in darkness. Matthew, with his eyes filled with sky and his sun-kissed blonde hair, was the counterbalance to his dark skin and hair.

"_No es fácil_… Especially without you…" He heard himself say as they continued to hold each other, and even though he had only taught Canada the basics of his Spanish dialect he was pretty sure the other man got the drift, especially since some French was similar.

"Miguel…" Matthew pulled back, and he trailed his hands from the sides of his face down to his jaw; pure adoration reflected in his eyes. He then leaned forward, tilted his chin up, and pressed a firm kiss against his lover's mouth. He was a_ little_ more than ecstatic that the dark skinned man hadn't accused him of being his brother.

It was a small kiss, one that barely lasted a few seconds, and when they broke apart they were both smiling. Cuba stared into the face of Canada and really took his features in. Sure, he looked like his brother from far away, but up close he was so different. His hair was longer, almost as long as France's, and his face definitely showed signs of exhaustion, but he was still Matthew.

Still the same man he had been before the war broke out; the same person who, just hours before he went off to war, had laid in Miguel's bed and spoke quietly about how he had to do this. It was the right thing to do, and he wanted the Cuban to be there when he got back. He had wanted to protect the people he cared about; he even mentioned Alfred- which really got Cuba angry.

"_Please understand…_" He had reached out and put his fingertips against Miguel's cheek. "_I want to protect everyone, I want to help, and I want you to not get involved needlessly_."

"_That's crap_." He remembered muttering under his breath, "_I should be the one going out to war…_"

"_Just promise me one thing_…" Matt sat up in the bed to completely change the subject, some of the pristine white sheets falling off and pooling around his waist. "_You won't forget who I am before I come back. We just got you recognizing me in the past month._"

He had scoffed then, grabbed his arm and pulled him forward so he would land against Miguel's awaiting chest. Their lips meeting for what could have been the millionth time in that twenty-four hour time span. "I _think I'll be able to remember this body_." He had wrapped his arms around Matthew's waist, "_and that expression_."

The look he had been referring to was the one only he got to see; the gentle blush and the sheepish grin that he swore that damn American would never be able to pull off. He kissed him again, before letting him go completely so he could get up and get dressed.

"People know who I am now…" Canada snapped him out of his thoughts for the second time, and he looked into the elated illumination of that face. The blonde continued excitedly, "Arthur called me by my name, even when Alfred was standing _right there_…"

He took a step back and turned around. He felt like jumping up and down in childish happiness but instead started to take his jacket off to reveal the just as dirty shirt beneath it. He wasn't even thinking as he hung it over a kitchen chair, he was too busy babbling on about his adventures.

"And because I was in so many battles, even Germany knew who I was. I heard a couple of his soldiers say 'Damn Canadian's!'" He giggled and spun back around to face the amused Cuban. "Miguel they knew who we were!" He ran forward and grabbed his hand to hold it to his chest. "They cursed my country!" He was laughing.

Miguel simply shook his head, unable to wipe the smirk off his face. "You know, most people get upset about someone damning their people…"

"But they _knew which country to damn_!" He was beaming so brightly it nearly hurt the _Cuban's _face, but he understood why the blonde before him was so happy. It had been far too long that everyone had mistaken him for his brother or, worse yet, not even noticed him at all.

"I'm proud of you, you know." He thought for a moment that Matthew was going to start crying tears of joy, but instead he took a small half-step closer and bit his lip to hold back the smile. "I heard about, what was it, D-Day?"

The other nodded to confirm, and looked down to hide his face, at which point he probably noticed the trail of mud he had been leaving in the surprisingly clean home. He bent over and pulled off the heavy boots and socks that were probably black at one point. When he finally kicked off the last one he stumbled forward into awaiting arms and then he became aware that he had messed up Miguel's own clothes.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I forgot how messy my uniform was! Now you're all wet and muddy too. I should have thought of that!" He tried to brush the dirt off of the other man's top, but his hands were caught in larger, darker ones before he could put too much effort into it, the Cuban was chuckling.

"Relax; I'll wash both of our clothes later. Are you hungry?" He moved further into the kitchen, where the front door was conveniently connected to, and opened up the fridge to see what he had.

He looked up to see if Matthew had followed him, but the blonde hadn't at all, in fact he was still standing there at the front staring down at the wooden floors. He was trailing the route of gravel he had left with his eyes and looking rather guilty. Cuba observed as the Canadian then glanced down at his own clothes, pulling the black undershirt from his chest and watching as little specs of dust that had been caked on cracked and fell.

It took him a moment but then he seemed to register something, and covered his cheek to hide the blush that was creeping up. Miguel had to wonder just what the hell had wormed its way into his boyfriend's mind in order to make him turn that color.

"Hey," he called out, now closing the fridge. "You okay? Do you want anything to eat?"

The country shook his head and sighed, "I, um, I'm not hungry. I just…" But whatever he was going to say didn't seem to want to come out, so instead he pursed his lips and stared at Cuba through his eyelashes.

His hand now rested at his neck, rubbing at it nervously, and from the small glass window on the front door he could tell that the sun was finally setting. It seemed to bathe Canada in a warm orange glow. His glasses had a glare on them, just at the corner of the lens, and it occurred to the dark skinned man that Matthew didn't suit the clothes he was in. The long sleeved black shirt and the deep green uniform bottoms were something he'd expect on Germany. Black wasn't Matthew's color, it made him look even more pale, and the green bottoms were just demolished; they looked like they were made of the heaviest material known to man. How had he moved in them?

"Hey, um, Miguel?" Called out the Canadian cautiously, running a hand through his hair. "How have you been? I haven't even asked…"

The dark skinned man walked towards the paler of the two and grabbed his hand. He didn't think he could handle seeing the blonde in those dirty clothes any longer. He paused in his trek up the stairs and almost had Matthew walk into him; maybe he just couldn't handle him in clothes _period_. "Better," he finally answered. "At least now that you're here."

He didn't even have to look behind him to see the timid look the other man was probably sending the back of his head.

They entered into his room, with the younger of the two hanging back, fearing that he would dirty the place more if he moved. Cuba was shuffling through his closet for something that he could wear, and finally emerged with one of his white shirts that would probably be a little long for the shorter country. He turned towards him and held it out, muttering something about finding pants.

"Oh, that's okay." Miguel turned towards him and stared at him like he hadn't heard him right.

What he did get, though, was Matthew turning away from him slightly so he could pull off the black shirt up over his head. It gave the other a good view of the newly developed muscles he had been hiding under the bulky clothing. Just as he began to enjoy the little show, he felt himself frown when he caught sight of one of the new scars. Unfortunately the next second the white shirt slithered down to cover the pale expanse of skin. He was right, the shirt was a little too big; ending a little past his middle thighs, and effectively covering everything as he reached down and slipped off the pants. He then bent down and picked up the clothes off the floor and turned towards Miguel as if it had been a completely innocent endeavor.

"Where did you want me to-"He cut himself off, and laughed nervously. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

White suited him better, maybe it was that silly innocent stereotype, but it made everything look cleaner, brighter, it made his cheeks flush with color that had been hidden by the dark clothing. Although, he was a little preoccupied with how uncomfortable his pants felt after watching the Canadian _do that_.

"You did that on purpose." He accused in a low voice, trying to divert himself by grabbing the offered garments and throwing them in some random clothes basket he probably never used.

"Did what?" But the sly smile was giving him away completely, and Miguel had to clear his throat to not groan at the effect it had on him. The blonde walked over and put his hands on his boyfriend's chest, thinking the exact same thing the other man was. _It had been too long_. "Your clothes are dirty too, I'm sorry about that." He didn't look at his face as he began to slowly unbutton the shirt. "You should probably change."

How long was he planning on teasing him like this? Cuba rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tried to repeat some phrase over not ripping off Matthew's clothes and throwing him on the bed a couple times. After he had moved onto the fourth button and his hands seemed to pause to touch the revealed skin of his chest, Miguel lost every last inch of patience he had and meshed his mouth against Matthew's. The blonde squeaked in surprise before he almost instantly relaxed and fell into the remembered practice of tangling his hands in dark hair and pressing his mouth into the kiss. The dark skinned man licked at his lips like they were candy, begging for entrance.

_So_ long. _Too_ Long. It felt like he was on fire; like they couldn't move fast enough. Canada's hands trailed down Miguel's chest and the blonde gasped and almost pulled right away to stare, but the Cuban wouldn't let him. Instead his mouth was freed, glasses removed and gently tossed on top of the clothes hamper, and Miguel moved his mouth to kiss down his neck hotly.

"You… ah… lost so much weight. Are… you okay?" His skin was so sensitive; he was drowning in the feeling of the large hands running down his sides to grip his hips. Thumbs were pushing into the curve of his pelvic bones and almost massaging them. He gasped out; he had forgotten that spot.

"Yeah, told you, you're here." He interrupted his onslaught to growl that in a voice that sent a shiver up the blonde's spine. "_Cariño_…" he breathed against the skin where his neck met his shoulders.

The Canadian felt his knees go weak with the sheer force of _want_ that hit him with those words. He grabbed the side of the elder's face and kissed him fiercely, moaning into his lips when he gripped the back of his legs. Catching the hint he let Miguel move his legs so he could wrap them around his waist. Once he was hoisted from the ground they stumbled back until they both fell into the mattress.

Needless to say, things progressed quickly from there.

Miguel's pants and shirt were lost instantly, and they didn't even have time to take off the nice white shirt he had lent him. Canada arched into his hand when it slipped into his underwear, and those were also disposed of. Pale, slender fingers were lightly dragging down the contours of his back, and they slipped onto his front and traced their way back up until they were kissing again. Tongues and breaths mingling until they were melded to each other as closely as they could be, Matthew's legs hooking around his and pulling him closer still, his shirt riding up.

He was sure he heard the older nation rummage around for something, but he was soon pulled away from the auditory stimulus and back into the tactile one. His top being pulled up and teeth grazing across his nipple made the blonde cry out; he was quickly invaded with one slick finger, and then two. His mind unable to process the pleasure and then the strange uncomfortable feeling at the same time; and the onslaught against the skin on his chest won out.

His breaths were coming out in short pants, "please…" He whined, trying to pull Miguel up to kiss him again and relieve some of the passion.

The tongue against his heated skin ceased, and then he was suddenly looking into dark brown eyes; a silent question being asked between them that Matthew was more than willing to agree to. Even as he nodded, he noticed Miguel's eyes raking over him and felt a scorching blush travel all the way up his body.

He loved this moment, the way the hair fell in his face, and the way he looked against the sheets, like he belonged there. He looked _good_. He'd never be able to sleep with anyone as beautiful as Matthew, or recover if they ever stopped being together.

When he finally entered him he heard the muted sound of discomfort Matthew tried to hide in the back of his throat. He pressed his lips to every inch he could get without the shirt getting in the way as his lover adjusted. Finally, with a gentle nudge, he hooked one hand under the Canadian's knee and began to move.

After a few seconds, the blonde wrapped his legs around him again, and he was able to shift closer. He felt the spell he was under tingle across his skin. He was unable to stop kissing him, touching him, staring at him between every breath. Soon they were moving in complete unison against each other; Canada letting out a loud breathy call when he hit his prostate. The blonde's eyes were half-closed, relishing the rapidly building tension as their sweat-slicked bodies pressed against each other with every thrust.

Miguel moved his arm that was beside the blonde's head and found the hand that was fisted in the sheets. He ran his thumb across the almost-white knuckles and grinned when Matthew opened his eyes to stare at him. He bit his lip to hold back the sounds he was making and let go of the fabric so the darker-skinned man could entwine their fingers.

"_Amor_," he leaned down and pressed his lips against the edge of his younger lover's mouth. "Let your voice out. Let me hear it." He moved so he was pushing in at a slightly higher angle; Matthew gasped out, making small noises with each new sensation against that sinful bundle of nerves. He was arching in the tension of being so close, nails curling into his other palm.

After that Cuba couldn't stop from pounding into him until they were both spent, and he nearly fell on top of him when he collapsed.

Canada seemed to be laughing as best as he could while out of breath, when he rolled Miguel off of him and somehow ended up on top; the movement caused the white article to flutter back down and cover him. After he caught his breath a little, he leant down and kissed him with so much passion that it was mind-blowing. It was something that had been too slow-paced for their flurry of after a _long-freaking-time_ sex, but right then it was perfect.

After they broke apart, Matthew squirmed a little and rested his head against Cuba's chest, finally able to fall asleep in the arms of his boyfriend. "_Mi vida_…" He heard Miguel mumble sleepily, and a kiss was pressed against the top of his head.

"_Je t'aime, mon Cubain…_"

Two nights later, after quite a few replays of _that_ night's activities, they were laying in the afterglow when a loud harsh ringing interrupted their blissful moment. They both groaned, and Miguel got up to get the phone with Matthew listening through strained ears.

"Yeah, he is what about it?"

There was silence, an angry voice on the other end, and then the phone call ended.

"Who was that…?" He asked as the Cuban slipped back into bed and wrapped his arms around him again.

"England… Being a dick."

X

Francis was quite unimpressed with the younger nation; why the hell hadn't he been answering his phone calls? He was pretty sure he was getting him in trouble with his boss as well because the Canadian Prime Minister did not sound impressed after the fourth time he rang. With a sigh he stepped out of the car and thanked the gentleman who had driven him there. He grabbed his simple travelling bag and hoisted it up onto his shoulder; taking in the sight of the humble home in southern Ontario.

So showing up without warning had kind of worked for him in the past, he smiled, or rather in the recent past. That was how he managed to finally talk to Arthur, so he may as well test his luck and check if it worked with Mathieu as well. His son-like country had been such a hassle, as of late. This was probably the first time he had actually been in his own country since the war ended. He most certainly had some things to tell the Canadian when he finally saw him.

Even if Canada had ended up being an English colony, he always considered the younger blonde to be his little _frère_. Arthur could definitely have Alfred; he shuddered at the loud, obnoxious brat he knew the states to be. His little boy was so much better-behaved; and he knew the quiet blonde kind of preferred him to Arthur anyways. At least he could tell the difference between him and his twin.

Nearing the house he heard a loud noise of something crashing. With a jolt he ran around the side of the building and peered in through the window. Once again he began fearing the worst.

Well, he figured out what Canada had been doing since the battle's end.

He had to admit he was a little impressed; his little Mathieu really wasn't as innocent as he seemed. This was especially so since he had nothing but a large blue Hawaiian-style shirt to cover him; his shirtless lover/boyfriend/thing, carrying him with his arms around his waist. He was just a little taller than Cuba in that position and he had both of his hands tangled in his hair as he kissed him.

Yes, Francis was proud of him, but that didn't mean he wasn't a bit ticked that the Canadian hadn't TOLD him about his little_ amour_. Even though he had suspected it since the last world meeting; when the two of them looked like they were going to start doing it on the large round table.

Well, if his peaceful morning had been interrupted then he'd pass along the good-will to the younger nation. With purpose he walked around to the front door and banged on it as loudly as he could; secretly hoping he had startled the crap out of the two of them. "_Bonjour Mathieu_!"

"Shit!" Francis' eyes bugged out of his head; he was pretty sure that had been Mathieu. What a bad influence the Cuban had been on his poor little boy! "That's probably Francis!" Francis scoffed; if he knew he was coming over then why wasn't he prepared? Did he even know he could hear them through the door?

"Quick," there was the distinct sound of giggling, "go answer the door! I have to find some pants…" The sound of thundering footsteps alerted him that the younger nation had probably headed for his room to find said article.

"What, you don't want me to hide in the closet?" Yelled back the Cuban good-naturedly, "and I don't have a shirt, you know. You kind of stole it."

"Just answer it! He's going to start getting suspicious!" Francis had to strain his ears to hear that one since Canada was further away. And he was just thinking what the Cuban said next.

"He's going to know, especially when I answer the door without a shirt on." Miguel's voice was getting closer, until he finally clicked the lock and pulled open the door.

Francis tried, he really tried to act surprised, and the sight of the shirtless nation did send him for a bit of a loop so he must have pulled it off. "Cuba…" He greeted in a stiff manner, his smile almost seeming plastic. "I'm assuming Mathieu is here then…"

"France." He greeted just as unimpressed, and stepped out of the way to let the Frenchman in. He now found the source of the loud bang; something that looked distinctly like a vase had fallen to the floor, and broken in a couple large pieces.

"_Salut Francis_!" Yelled out Matthew from the other room, but there was still the sound of rummaging, so he had enough time to turn to Cuba and give him the whole awkward, intimidation, thing.

"So, normally I'd attempt to scare the crap out of you with some sort of fatherly line." He turned around to face the Cuban, who had the decency to look a little embarrassed. He took off his gloves and with an easygoing air. "However, I know I've been just as bad, so just be good to him." Francis smiled sweetly, "or I'm going to cut off a few of your favorite appendages. _Ne comprenez-vous?_"

"What does he understand?" The Canadian finally emerged with a different shirt on, a soft grey-blue, and some plain black slacks. He hadn't thought to put on some socks, but he was in his own home, so he probably figured he'd get away with it. Realizing he wasn't about to get a response, he began dancing back and forth awkwardly.

Now the silly, uncomfortable explanation began. "Well, um, Miguel was just here and his shirt got dirty from, um…"

Francis snorted and raised a prefect eyebrow; he figured he'd come up with a better excuse than that. He began to pull off his spring jacket and hung it over his arm. "_Mon cher,__Je ne suis pas stupide_." He switched back to English as he walked over to hang his coat up on the rack situated conveniently by the door. "You don't have to lie; Cuba and I have already had our talk. Though, I am a little disappointed that you didn't tell me sooner."

Matthew turned a rather interesting shade of red, and hid his face in the palm of one hand. Miguel thought it was rather amusing, so he laughed to break the weird silence. They all stood there for a moment, before Miguel quietly excused himself to go put a shirt on.

Francis plopped dramatically onto the couch and gestured to the vase. "Having a little bit too much fun, Mathieu?" He crossed his legs and watched his adorable little brother get even more flustered before he turned to the vase and made an 'o' with his mouth.

"That's okay," He picked up the bigger pieces and threw them in the trash, changing attitudes completely. "Alfred gave me that. I was wondering what I should do with it." Francis smiled secretively, that was his boy, if only Arthur could see him now.

"Either way, I wanted to come and thank you, perhaps spend some time since we hardly got to do that during the battles… But I find I am interrupting your honeymoon." Canada was turning purple with all the blood rushing to his face. "So instead I wish to share something with you; I wanted you to be the first to know."

"What's that?"

"First of all, I am proud of you…" He gestured to the room that the Cuban had disappeared into, "for more than one reason… And I want to have your, ah, blessing of sorts. Arthur and I have decided to… 'Court'." He put the bunny ears around it, probably quoting said Englishman.

Matthew couldn't help but smile at the news, but he was a little perplexed as to why his blessing was needed, and he voiced this question.

"Well, I consider you to be family, so I just figured you'd like an opinion on the matter." He explained, and they both shared an affectionate smile. Sometimes Francis couldn't get over how much older he felt when he was with the Canadian, but he was sure he was looking into the face of the boy who would probably grow up to be at least a little influenced by France's personality.

"I'm happy for you…" The younger blonde clarified his silence.

"Thank you, and I you." He nodded to the Cuban as he came back into the room, with his shirt, and put his hand against Canada's shoulder. "But I suppose I should be going, you can give me a call later and we'll have lunch. I just wanted to pop in and make sure you were doing okay."

Matthew went to stop him, feeling horrible that the older nation had made the flight all the way there to be turned away at the door. But Francis waved off the feeble attempt, "_non_, don't give me that face; you are rightfully celebrating. Besides, I should probably go rescue Arthur, he has the task of telling Alfred."

Everyone in the room grimaced.

XxX

Weird ending, but I figure I'd add the little hint from the other story, sorry to anyone who read it for the CubaCanada and doesn't like France/England. I figure it's only one small part. And hey, I've seen it happen in others…

Yes, this chapter is way more light-hearted than the other two. I figured Canada should have a happy ending, so to speak, and that he'd be ecstatic after his involvement in the war. I was going to have a part in here where Cuba told off America, but I think I'll save that for the next chapter. Oh, the fun I shall have with you, Little America… //cackles//

I think I will mention here that, no, Matthew does not use the word 'eh' in this chapter. One, because if I see another poor Canadian stereotype of 'Eh?' at the end of every sentence I'm going to stab someone. Two, I am Canadian and I say 'eh' just as much as any other English speaking person (so not much), so I write like I speak; mostly proper English. Save the horrible grammar.


End file.
